


delirium

by one_more_offbeat_anthem



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Getting Together, Inspired by Poetry, Introspection, Pining Dean Winchester, Sickfic, Sketches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:46:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28354155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_more_offbeat_anthem/pseuds/one_more_offbeat_anthem
Summary: I talk to you as if you’re really there. Are you there, sweetheart? Do you know me? Is this microphone live?Dean is sick and cannot be healed, so Cas cares for him as best he can.(inspired by "litany in which certain things are crossed out" by richard siken)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	delirium

**Author's Note:**

> the portions in bold are from “litany in which certain things are crossed out” by richard siken :)

**_So maybe I wanted to give you something more than a catalog_ **

**_of non-definitive acts,_ **

**_something other than desperation._ **

This kind of hunger won’t let go. It gnaws at Dean’s insides, clamors to get out. He’s a person, no--he’s a tool, no--he’s God’s least chosen, God’s mistake. 

The hunger eats and eats and climbs up out of his throat and then sees that the target it desires has gone away. 

“It’ll be a quick hunt,”  Cas says,  “I can handle it on my own. You’re sick. Get well.”

Dean wants to get better, he doesn’t want to wait. And then he hears Sam whispering in the hallway to Cas. 

“He’ll wake up,” Sam tells him, “I know he will. You just have to be patient.” 

Dean can’t be patient. He’s full up on fear and longing, and it barks at his throat, threatening to push him off the precipice. He hasn’t said the words because how  _ does  _ he say them? He wants to get up, he wants to go with, but whatever is ailing him pins him under his sheets.

_ I love you, I love you, please never leave, just stay, here, with me. Please? You have to, you must, I want you, I  _ **_need_ ** _ you. _

It’s the worst-best kind of pain.

When Cas is not away, when Dean is not alone, the angel touches more than he has to, heals even when he is hurt, and...he shouldn’t have to. 

__ **_And the part where I push you_ **

**_flush against the wall and every part of your body rubs against the bricks,_ **

**_shut up_ **

**_I’m getting to it._ **

_“_ He’s awake,” are the next words Dean hears Sam say to Cas, “He’s awake, and he wants to talk to you. Can you talk to him _?”_

Dean can, but not about the things that matter. He chatters his time away, the angel listens, the angel soothes his sweaty forehead.

Dean falls asleep again. Days pass. How many? He doesn’t know. 

The angel is there, his clothes different from before, but his hand shakes as he passes Dean a glass of water.

“I wish I could heal you,” Cas says.  “I don’t know why I can’t.”

“You’ll get better,”  Sam says to him later,  “I know you will.”

He worries and worries until he is asleep again. The next time, they force sweet honey down his throat--it rips it to shreds. A large, tan, calloused hand smooths the blankets. There is a permanent chair by his bed. If he is not mistaken, his angel is praying. 

To who? 

**_I make you pancakes, I take you hunting, I talk to you as if you’re_ **

**_really there._ **

**_Are you there, sweetheart? Do you know me? Is this microphone live?_ **

__

Then Dean doesn’t wake up for days. Or, rather, he is awake but he cannot move, he has eyes but he cannot see. He has never been so sick, so ill, so broken. 

It hurts, this longing, this hunger, like glass shoved in between his ribs, and he wishes for it to end. It doesn’t. The angel presses a cool, damp cloth to Dean’s face. 

It feels nice, and he wants to say so, but his mouth does not move.

_ I love you,  _ he thinks,  _ thank you for taking care of me. I know you cannot love me back. Tell me you love me back _ .

To Dean, this illness, crippling him, is like a crude facsimile of who he is--broken beyond repair, never  _ quite  _ good enough. He breaks first, gives up too easy, lets people down, down,  _ down.  _ He does this, all of this, in isolation. His pain is vast, cannot be understood by anyone else. 

The world slips away again.

He dreams--for a long time. He sees the past, so maybe they’re not dreams, they’re  _ truths _ \--a bloodied palm on the wall of the green room. An alleyway. A dock where Cas tells him he has a message. Burnt wings on the ground. Cas says he’ll go with him--he can’t go with him. Dean always has to do it alone. 

And then he’s cradling Cas’ face, wrapping him in sheets, looking away as Cas says  _ I love you, I love all of you _ \--it hurts. There’s the glass again, twisting, stabbing. The hunger takes and takes until there is nothing left, and then the dreams are gone, and he is alone in the darkness.

**_Hello darling, sorry about that._ **

**_Sorry about the bony elbows, sorry we_ **

**_lived here, sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell_ **

**_and how I ruined everything by saying it out loud._ **

__

The fever breaks at last, and for the first time in days, weeks, Dean can sit up. His tongue is heavy in his mouth, his throat full of sawdust. His room is empty, save him. 

There is a book on the bedside table. Dean leans over--it’s a notebook, one of those cheap things you can get anywhere. Inside it are sketches. Animals, flowers, the car that he loves so much, and himself.

He sees his nose, his eyes, the curve of his jaw, mapped out by the pencil. It’s breathtaking. It’s a beautiful first thing to see, when he feels like he’s come back from the dead. Not him--but himself through another person’s eyes.

Dean flips through the last page, and sees a sketch of his whole face in profile. Written underneath it, in slanted handwriting, Cas’ handwriting, is one word.

_ Beloved. _

He does not speak of what he has seen until what the clock calls nightfall, when the angel comes back, a smile on his face. When he reaches his hand out towards Dean’s forehead, Dean takes it.

“I saw them,”  he says in a whisper,  “Your sketches. Were you telling the truth?”

A nod.

“Stay?”

The warm body of his own beloved is next to him, and each soft press of the mouth is a promise. He sleeps soundly, without emptiness, for the first time in his life. 

**_I’m not really sure why I do it, but in this version you are not_ **

**_feeding yourself to a bad man_ **

**_against a black sky prickled with small lights._ **

**_I take it back._ **

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really know what happened, I set out to work on a happy New Year's Eve fic (which will still happen!) today, and then this happened instead. Maybe it's because I had a meh day. Either way, I hope this is enjoyable for y'all. Thanks to my beta, heavylifting (you can find them by the same name here on ao3!) :)
> 
> as always, extra props goes to the profound bond discord server. if you're 18+, [join us!](https://discord.gg/profoundbond) we're good fun :)
> 
> if you like this, i post more stuff here sometimes and also on [my tumblr](https://one-more-offbeat-anthem.tumblr.com) :)


End file.
